


Frederick Wagner's Testimonial (Parents V Fazbear Entertainment)

by Theplanetprince



Series: To Those Carried In Your Arms [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: 80s, Assault, Attempted Kidnapping, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gore, Horror, Kidnapping, Mentions of kidnapping, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV First Person, Paranoia, Paranormal, Speculation, Springlock Animatronic Suits (Five Nights at Freddy's), Springlock Failures (Five Nights at Freddy's), Stalking, Suspense, The Horrors of Retail, The Missing Children Incident (Five Nights at Freddy's), Trauma, osha would have fazbear's head, this whole fic is non osha compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theplanetprince/pseuds/Theplanetprince
Summary: A more realistic approach to the fnaf series, starting with a court case. Fredrick Wagner (aka Phone Guy) was only looking for a summer job but ended up with so much more. Finally getting the opportunity to air his side of the story, and his decade working under the Bear.(A novelization of fnaf 2, culminating with other theories regarding the first location, and the first missing children's incident.)
Relationships: Phone Guy & Purple Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's)
Series: To Those Carried In Your Arms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145024
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Frederick Wagner's Testimonial (Parents V Fazbear Entertainment)

**Author's Note:**

> If I manage to finish this before I die of old age I think I'll have lived a happy life. Either way don't expect this to update often. It will be extremely sporadic as well as experimental. As I imagine this isn't the first time someone has attempted to make sense of this awful headache of a timeline.
> 
> I have read some of the novels but please note that none of this will adhere to Canon outside of the games. In my opinion the stuff about the soul energy inside the robots kind of bores me. So I'll be sticking to a very very basic unexplained paranormal-- slightly satanic murder mystery set in the 80s.

It was autumn; I remembered that it was autumn. The dead trees in the front yard stood ominously. They were birch trees with those age spots that made it hard to eat cold cereal, with one looking across from you at the table. My brother asks me from time to time if the trees get cold, without their clothes. I had yet to find an answer to satisfy him. 

I stopped pressing my face to the window long enough to realize how very few cars there were in the parking lot. A beat-up pale honda civic was gathering leaves on the windshield. There were the words, ‘For Sale’ scrawled on in big consistent lettering in window paint. Then my own bike, which I didn’t bother to chain to the front of the store. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was not only a grown man who lived with his parents, but a grown man who also couldn’t afford his own car. 

I am twenty-five years old. I was twenty-five years old. My chest seized around my bones when I heard the entry-way bell ring. Before I could call out-- 

A large box painted to look like a present burst open. A black humanoid-shaped figure with a white doll face leapt out, its torso limply hitting the outside of its container before standing stiffly.

“Due to corporate policy, _we ask_ that all adults unaccompanied by children wait here behind the gate. If you are a member of our extra special backstage crew for Freddy and the gang, _I ask_ that you present your ID wristband now.”

The robot's arms flapped up and down rather clumsily to sell the puppetry illusion, while the torso rigidly swayed from side to side. 

“Present your ID wristband now.” 

I stuttered out to the machine, “I-- I don’t uh-- have one.” 

As if the robot had any sort of comprehension skills. 

“Present your ID wristband now.” 

A man in a plain single dark color jumpsuit stepped out from behind the prize counter. He spoke gruffly, “You Wagner’s kid?” 

“Fred,” I offered, “Though I think for the sake of confusion, you can just call me Fritz.”

The man looked me over. He wiped his hands off on an already stained rag tied to his belt loop. I couldn’t deny that it was pathetic of me to ride my Dad’s reputation to land me a comfortable position. Well, as comfortable as a couple of bucks above minimum wage could be.

The machine repeated once more, jangling the bells on its head insistently, “Present your ID wristband now.” 

After a couple more seconds, the man seemed to satisfy his curiosity about me long enough to exit the prize counter. He didn’t look very old but appeared to lurch towards the gate with a limp. Rolling up his sleeve, he presented a navy blue wristband as he went over the gate. The Puppet stopped moving for a moment. Its eyes flashed green, accepting the bracelet, “Hello valued backstage crew!”

With that short greeting, the robot folded itself back up and retreated into its box, just as suddenly and jerkily as it arrived. The man was somewhat pleased with the reaction time,”The security puppet is still in its infancy, but damn if it ain’t a smart baby.” 

“I’ve never seen anything like it, it-- it's like something out of science fiction,” I gestured to the box. 

“Name’s Jacob Schmidt.” The man swung the gate open, extending his hand.

I gave him what I believed was a firm handshake, “Nice to meet you.” 

“Welcome aboard.” Jacob finally let me pass through the gate, though something told me he wasn’t going to let me totally off the hook. He only seemed to crack a smile at the machine that had enough intelligence that paralleled the dumbest human. He more than likely enjoyed the company of these robots than the customers. 

I began to ask, “So, you’re a… robot- f-fix--it guy--?”  
  
“The term you’re looking for there, son, is a technician,” Jacob replied with a quiet impertinence, “Certified by the big man himself.” He pointed to the embroidered bear on his breast pocket.

“ _God?_ ” I joked.

Slapping my shoulder, Schmidt snickered, “I think we’re gonna get along.” 

He then led me through the prize counter. Since the restaurant was still in its early stages, so the bins were empty or holding printed pictures with example prizes. A fixture like the mouth of a central vacuum found in those fancier suburban homes was embedded in the back wall. Its flat face possessed bear ears and a hat giving the suggestion that it was Freddy. Its painted teeth over the fixture were large and didn’t seem to fit in the decoration's mouth. The fact that there were molded hands on the outside of its head as if it was stretching its mouth open looked rather odd. Coupled with the tiny-- almost sunken in marble eyes, it was rather unsettling.

Jacob saw me briefly study it before we found ourselves in the maintenance hallway of the restaurant. The hallway was almost a complete tone shift compared to the rest of the establishment. All four walls were a dark grey with a checkered stripe down the middle with a burgundy border. It almost felt devoid of color after looking at the main floor. The lighting was marginally better, though the sickly yellow tint made me feel nauseous. The humming coming from those fluorescents didn’t aid my stomach.

“That’s County.” Schmidt then pointed to a door toward the end of the hall, “County counts the tickets, and spits out a ticket receipt for the kids to redeem at the prize counter. It saves the prize guys time in making sure the kids aren’t passing off more tickets than they actually earn. That room there is where all the counted tickets are stored. Day guards empty them before closing. Nightguards are supposed to turn on the mechanism before opening.” 

I nodded, “That isn’t really wh-what I was curious about, sir. I’m-- it looks-- why does it look like that?” 

“It’s supposed to look like the kids are ‘feeding’ the tickets to Freddy,” Jacob added, “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” I repeated. 

Wordlessly we continued down the hall, our steps and breath echoing off the walls. The guts of the restaurant were inescapably hollow. It was still new. Not new in the sense like a fancy new vehicle, but you could easily confuse it for being abandoned. It was untouched but worn. Eventually, we reached a rather heavier looking door. It was covered in labels and warnings, triangles with exclamation marks, high voltage symbols, numerous cautions. Though nothing on the door felt as foreboding than the white scratches against the dark metal door that contrasted like stars on a clear night. The marks weren’t deep. It was as if something was dragged gingerly-- almost deliberately, across. Schmidt knocked, each rap of his knuckles repeating and looping down the hall. The sound becoming deeper and distorted. 

He nudged me, “You never want to catch these things with their pants down.” 

“Are you decent?” Jacob bellowed. I was startled once again by the volume being amplified because of the hall. I wasn’t sure if the old man was trying to be funny. 

After a few moments of silence, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. The butterflies going beyond the confines of my stomach. I was so in my head trying to make a good impression-- 

The technician punched in a code to the panel guarding the door. It was too sudden for me to see what exactly he was typing. The weighty door slid open with a hiss. I wondered which episode of _Star Trek_ I was in. 

Schmidt stuffed his hands into his pockets, taking one step in. He called, poking his head in, “Honey, I’m home.” 

Turning to me, he gestured for me to make my entrance too. Jacob introduced, “and I’ve brought company.” He yanked me into the backstage area. 

We-- uh… I remember we called it the ‘green room.’ Since that was the Hollywood term for real musical acts, that was the weirdest part about working there. At first, I thought it was an act that Jake was doing… but the job… since you’re alone a lot with these things, these robots. You start to think of them as people. They were in the same foxhole as we were. No pun intended. They were coworkers, essentially. It wasn’t just ‘I’m cleaning this machine because it's my job and I’m being paid to do it.’ You were patching up a friend-- someone who needed your help. Maybe because my brother-- I-- I have a tendency to be overly empathetic, I guess. 

After I want to say… a week… maybe two, I started to talk to them. Just as naturally as I’m talking to you, I couldn’t tell you if they were actually listening-- ha. Jacob said as long as they didn’t talk back, I was fine. Sorry-- that was a tangent. 

Schmidt pointed out ‘Honey,’ a very slimmed down version of Chica the Chicken. She had shiny pink bulbous cheeks that descended from her face. The cheeks were semi-translucent domes; you could see lightbulbs in them. Her apron from the original design had been modified to become a crop-top. It was all painted on, so I guess it didn’t matter. Her bottom looked like she was wearing another pink thing-- She’s the only girl in the cast, so I guess they had gotten complaints about how ambiguous her original design was. 

“Wow, Chica got a makeover,” I attempted to keep the conversation going, “its… uh, wow.” 

“Apparently, since Fredbear’s family diner was bought out, the new investors had some changes for these new junior locations.” Jacob propped Chica up, causing her beak to fall from the recess in her faceplate, “They were nice enough to at least give me the instruction manual for these things-- but they’ve got to be the most complicated pieces I’ve seen.” He explained, “And I apprenticed under the magic kingdom for cripe’s sake.” 

"For comparison, the guys from the old location let me poke around the older models… its like night and day." 

I scanned the room to see the other members of the animatronic band. Bonnie the bunny, I think. Freddy somehow got even tubbier. They still bore some resemblance to their namesake, if only through species. Though notably, I couldn't see Foxy. 

Foxy, the pirate, was sort of… the villain of the show. Every hour on the hour, the concert started, Freddy would sing two songs with background accompaniment Bonnie on guitar and Chica on some form of percussion. Then in the middle of the third song, Foxy would 'interrupt' and Shanghai the performance. He would then teach the kids a shanty. A very censored version of 'Stormy Weather Boys.’ Bonnie would then gain back some control of the stage by asking if Foxy knew ‘Bonny Ship the Diamond.’ Then the show would get back on track, having a truce. It wasn’t high art or anything, but it was cute. Foxy was a fan favorite since he was singing thinly veiled songs about drinking. He was my brother’s favorite and mine as well. 

Jacob then corrected me, “And this is-- well, we’re not supposed to call her Chica. Apparently, her name is Chondra.” 

My nose unintentionally wrinkled. I pointed to the blue rabbit, "and this is--?"

"Baxter." 

I shook my head, "no… I'm not calling him that." 

Jacob grabbed some kind of tool from a metal wheel tray, fastening 'Chondra's' beak back into her face. Twisting her neck and face towards him in an uncomfortable position. Leaning her body onto his. It was at this moment I realized the band around his forehead was actually a headlamp. Schmidt had flipped it on to get a better look at where the insecurity was in his fixes. He mumbled, "Apparently, some conservative types didn't like the fact that Bonnie was a boy." 

"Huh?"

"Bonnie is a boy, and he's purple, and he carries around a magical bag. It isn't… uh, I'm not sure the phrasing they'd like me to use. But it isn't 'butch.'" Schmidt waved the tool around nonchalantly, gesticulating absentmindedly. 

"So they made him blue, gave him a stronger name-- for some reason, the new investors were against using the color purple in large amounts."

That was a comment I wrote off at first. 

I leaned closer to the blue animatronic. Its mouth hung open. Its lower jaw swayed in one direction. "He's got eyelashes?"

"Yeah… for some reason, I got sent two sets of Chondra eyelids instead of one of each character set. I hope it'll get resolved when we get more hires, no offense, son."

  
  


Raising my hands semi-defensively, I facetiously reported, "none taken. I'm just the schmuck who makes sure no kids climb on the walls." 

"... so, where's the pirate guy?" I asked, feigning that I was slightly more mature than I actually was.

"You mean Foxy?" Jacob rose from his spot on the metal table, shifting the Chica animatronic off of his torso. He moved the machine with such ease it made me forget that they were actually hundreds of pounds of clockwork and wires. Jacob didn't look that old but certainly carried himself like he was. There were streaks of grey in his hair. The overhead lights caught them every so often. He was a stout man, certainly a lot heavier than me. I could've easily mistaken his muscle as a beer belly. A lot of guys after Vietnam just sort of had that appearance; my father certainly did. If anything positive came out of Freddy's, the employment of vets was exceptionally higher than most places. It's not my place to comment, but it felt bizarre working with people I fundamentally disagreed with-- but I didn't go to college, and this was all that was available. I felt exceptionally strange in most places. Especially eating dinner with one. 

  
  


With a heft, Jacob had stooped down. Grabbing the cumbersome shaped animatronic head from one of the cabinets, He turned. 

Foxy looked… different. To put it mildly. Instead of a rust color, he was now starch white like a bone, with a pastel blush snout and loud red lip detailing. A far departure from a sea-worn sailor to a reject Muppet from a Marie Antoinette production.

My expression might not have been positive initially. However, eventually, I did come around to the new models. While they weren't soft and fuzzy like the original models, come to find out, it was hard to clean spills and stains off of the faux fur. The older cast also had exposed locks and joints that could take someone's finger off as well as cords that were easy to clip without peeling off their shells. They were sleek, shiny, and with their later integrated child predator facial scanners, I thought they were at least safer.

In hindsight, since the scanners were added only immediately after the last party at the local Fredbear’s, I should have had more reason to doubt. 

I began to wade into my opinion, "Foxy--" 

"It's Pierre now. Pierre the pirate," Schmidt corrected me.

I think I let out a pained groan. 

“C’mon, change is good. It’s good for a company to have a facelift,” Jacob insisted, placing the head on the tray. He then appeared to be trying to locate either spare parts or some assembly instructions. He squatted, pulling out a twisted collection of metal scrap with a set of eyes attached. Under his breath, Schmidt remarked that “the complicated part is that Pierre is supposed to be holding a puppet on his hand-- a lot of moving parts.” 

“Aren’t you old guys supposed to be against any form of progressive change?” 

With that hanging in the air, Jacob ran a hand through his scraggly beard, “I’ll let that comment slide since I’m in a good mood.” He narrowed his eyes at me, “Boy.” 

Gulping, I had immediately switched back to my timid personality, keeping my opinions to myself. We still had a long way before we were actually friends, that is, if he would ever allow me to be, of course. There were moments when I thought Jacob did show me affection. I guess that’s what’s cruel about his passing. I don’t think I ever showed him the respect that he deserved. If we weren’t butting heads about something, then we wouldn’t say anything most of the time. Aside from our first meeting and introducing me to the junior location I would later work at. We didn’t have many opportunities to speak. When eventually we became short-staffed, I would end up taking on more of his responsibilities. Cleaning, making minor repairs to the ‘new’ animatronics. They would call him in a few more times when the damages exceeded my abilities. 

We did go out for his nephew’s twenty-first birthday… 

But that was before Issah… was found in the supply closet. Jacob seemed to retreat further into his machines after that.

Reflecting back, I regret not being easier on Jacob. 

After giving that brief introduction to the new location, we shook hands again. He then directed me to report to Fredbear’s to talk to my actual supervisor. Dave Miller. From then on, I worked the night shift without complications for a year or so. 

A part of my job on the graveyard shift at Fredbear’s was to record myself. I thought it was a bit-- _1984_. I don’t think anyone would have enjoyed having their bosses pouring over every sneeze or every time they got up to use the restroom. However, it did occur to me as an entry-level employee that had no incentive to trust a high-school educated joe off the street.

Like… talking to the animatronics, I guess I got into the habit of talking to myself. It's one of those things that felt normal to do since there was no one else around... 

Dave-- Dave really had a fascination with my narrations… I suppose. He would ask me about activities during the night shift, despite listening to the tape and having videos. It wasn’t out of suspicion. It was more like a curiosity. At first, I thought it was his way of being friendly, taking an interest in me. I don’t know why I let it get so out of hand, but it wasn’t like we had an HR department or anything. Dave was literally my boss, and I couldn’t complain about him to his face unless-- 

Unless I wanted to get fired.


End file.
